


Rage Against the Marshmallow

by sconesandtextingandmurder



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fic, Crack, Gen, Marshmallows, Team Free Will, tiny!cain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 06:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3437648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sconesandtextingandmurder/pseuds/sconesandtextingandmurder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It didn’t really matter how it had happened. Witchcraft, ancient magic, maybe the slip of a tongue during a well-meaning incantation. Whatever way they’d gotten there, the end result was that Cain currently had every bit of his continuous, murderous rage contained in a four-inch tall body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rage Against the Marshmallow

“Cas!” Dean yelled from the other room. “Get him off me!”

Castiel sighed, carefully marking his page before closing the book.  He walked into the library to find Dean sitting at the table, his right hand held out in front of him, a look of exasperation on his face.

“How did he get out?” Cas asked, picking up the oven mitts they used for precisely this purpose.

“Fuck if I know,” Dean grumbled, his right arm now fully extended.  “He’s like a damn gerbil with those sharp teeth.”

Castiel assessed the situation, determining the best angle of approach.  While Dean waited, a small hiss of pain escaped and he clamped his left hand over the mark on his right arm.

“Does it hurt?” Cas asked, concern in his eyes.

“Not really.  With him at this size, it just burns a little.”

Cas, both hands soundly protected, reached forward in a quick, smooth motion.  The extraction complete, Cas carefully deposited the offending creature back into the hermit crab cage in which they’d been keeping him.

Dean examined the small red dents on the tip of his finger.  “Didn’t break the skin. Thanks, man,” he said, turning back to his research. 

Even as Cas propped an encyclopedia of medieval runes onto the lid to hold it in place, they could hear the outraged diatribe gaining steam.  Not every word was distinct through the plastic walls, but the general point was made by a healthy scattering of key concepts like “death” “revenge” and “murder”.

 *

It didn’t really matter how it had happened. Witchcraft, ancient magic, maybe the slip of a tongue during a well-meaning incantation. Whatever way they’d gotten there, the end result was that Cain currently had every bit of his continuous, murderous rage contained in a four -inch tall body. 

And _of course_ they were trying to fix him.  But his tirades and escapes weren’t exactly endearing him to any of them.

“I say we leave him like this,” Dean proposed, the next time Cain attempted to attack him, the handle of a bright yellow pushpin held in both of his small hands.

“I am the Father of Murder!” Cain exclaimed and Dean had to hand it to him.  Even with his voice so tinny, it was impressive the way those words still sounded capitalized.

“Yes,” Dean scowled.  “We know.  Father of murder. More frightening than any demon. Blah blah blah. “ He held Cain by the scruff of his coat, his little legs dangling in the air.  “Right now, though, you’re the Chief Pain In My Ass.”

Cain jabbed at him ferociously, albeit ineffectively, with the pushpin.

“Maybe it would help if we gave him an outlet for his aggression?” Sam suggested. 

Dean swung Cain towards his brother. “You wanna play dartboard?”

Sam flinched.  “Like the way you give an active kid a punching bag to hit? Maybe something like that.”

“I have an idea,” Castiel said, and left the room.

A few minutes later he was back, one hand loosely closed in a fist.  “Dean, could you put him back in the tank?”

“Gladly,” Dean said.

“I will _end_ you, Dean Winchester,” Cain threatened as Dean carried him with a few gratuitous bounces and jolts.

“’course you will,” Dean answered, in the most bored tone he could muster.

Cas hovered by the tank and waited for Dean to drop Cain inside. Then he opened his hand to drop two mini-marshmallows in along with him.  Quickly, they snapped the lid of tank shut.

Cain spun around, slipping on a half-eaten buttered corn niblet, as one of the marshmallows bounced off of his head. Still armed with the pushpin, he lunged at it, viciously kicking it out of his way.  Then he pounced on the second marshmallow, bellowing and stabbing it repeatedly. 

Sam, Dean, and Cas huddled around the tank watching as he took out his frustrations.  As he raged the marshmallows softened, gradually slowing down the path of the “blade” until finally he stopped, the pushpin hanging down at his side, his breathing ragged.  Then he sat down cross-legged on the floor of the tank and began to eat the marshmallow guts that clung to the pin.

“They totally would’ve edited this part out of the Bible,” Dean observed. 

 *

Alternating between stabbing and eating, the marshmallows kept Cain occupied for the rest of the evening until the sugar rush turned into a sugar crash and he fell asleep on a carcass of mangled marshmallow.

The peace and quiet made for a welcome change but, there was hell to pay the next morning.

Cain sat in the tank, glaring up at them, sticky bits of marshmallow embedded in his magnificent beard and glorious mane.

Dean visibly shuddered when he looked at him.

“Are you all right, Dean?” Cas asked.

“He just looks so… _sticky_ ,” Dean said in horror, wiping his palms on his jeans as if he were already covered in it.

“How in the world are we going to get him clean?” Sam asked, pushing his own hair back.

With some difficulty, Cain got to his feet. When he stood up, the washcloth they’d tossed in for him to use as a blanket was stuck to his butt. Turning his back to Dean and Cas, he gestured to Sam.  Sam leaned down closer to the air holes in the tank.

“You,” he intoned gravely.  “You are the only one I trust for this job.”

“Me?”  Sam said, in surprise.

“Yes.”  Cain nodded sagely and smoothed a hand over his hair.  It stuck halfway down and he swore mightily as he yanked his fingers free.

"Well, look at that!” Dean said, full of glee. “You guys are hair buddies! Maybe when this is done, you can start a cover band.”

 Cas looked between them in confusion as Sam and Cain displayed identical bitchfaces. 

 *

Sam carried the tank to the kitchen and set in on the counter.  He plugged the drain and added a few inches of warm water to the sink as well as two drops of dish soap.

“If I take you out of there, are you going to behave?” he asked Cain.

“You have my word,” Cain said solemnly. The toothpaste cap they’d given him as a drinking cup was lodged on his left foot. 

Using a pair of tongs, Sam lifted him out and placed him in the water, clothes and all.  First he detached the toothpaste cap, then he managed to get the washcloth unstuck. As he was deliberating the best way to remove the sticky residue from Cain’s hair and clothing, Dean approached with a small bag in his hand.

“Here, I picked this up at the store. Thought it might help.”

Sam opened the bag to find a pink sparkly toddler-sized toothbrush adorned with the likeness of Rapunzel from the movie Tangled.

“You are not fit to bear the Mark!” Cain yelled, his little voice echoing in the hollow of the sink.  He pounded his fists into the surface of the water, displacing a mini-tidal wave.

Dean snorted and walked out of the kitchen.

 *

It took multiple re-fillings of the sink with fresh, warm water and a lot of help from the (rather effective) toothbrush before Cain was finally scrubbed clean. By the time they were done, Sam’s shirtfront was soaked through but Cain’s constant haranguing had quieted into something almost appreciative.

 “Samuel. If anyone knows how you feel, it is I. No doubt you wish to see your brother taken down.  I am more than happy to repay you for this kindness by slaying him, once I regain my former stature. Killing brothers…it’s kind of my thing,” Cain said conspiratorially, one eyebrow raised.

 “Uh, thanks.  Really.  I appreciate the sentiment.  But I’m good,” Sam said, as he dropped a dish towel over Cain and rubbed him dry with a little more vigor than necessary.  He pretended not to notice the renewed grumblings now muffled by the terrycloth.

When he removed the towel, Sam’s eyes widened in amusement and he quickly brought one large hand to his face. He tried to smother the laugh, but it was no use.  Cain stood before him, his hair a stunning, resplendent mass sticking up from the top of his head. He looked like the universe’s most infuriated troll doll. 

As Sam doubled over in laughter, Cain caught sight of himself in the side of the toaster. 

“YOU WILL DIE BY MY HAND!” Cain roared, the very picture of pint-sized wrath and indignation.

“Time-out for cranky murder inventors,” Sam announced, setting a colander upside down over Cain.  He turned up the radio and whistled along as he washed the remains of the battle out of the tank.

 

 


End file.
